


The Definition of Insanity

by Ranrata



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-27
Updated: 2008-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranrata/pseuds/Ranrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Definition of Insanity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Said](https://archiveofourown.org/works/37617) by [Ranrata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranrata/pseuds/Ranrata). 



_"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.”_

\-- Benjamin Franklin

~

“Wilson,” House says, the gravelly quality of his voice much more apparent when Wilson's ear is pressed against his chest.

“Hm?”

There's a noticeable pause before House speaks again. “Just making sure your fat ass isn't falling asleep on top of me.”

Wilson snorts at that. He can't help it. “Because you're so delicate.” Turning to look at House, he adds, “And you weren't complaining about my 'fat ass' a few minutes ago.”

“Even George Washington had delicate fingers,” House replies, as though he were making a real point. Wilson starts shaking, then breaks out into a full laugh. The entire situation is completely absurd; he's lying naked in bed with is very male friend, after having sex with him, and they're bantering as always like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Then again, absurd is typical for the two of them.

“_Your_ fingers are _not_ delicate,” Wilson says, taking House's hand, rubbing his thumb over the rough palm, then places a kiss on it.

“George Washington never played guitar,” House says. “I have a very delicate heart.” He bats his eyelashes, making Wilson laugh again. House will always be House, it seems. On some level, Wilson finds that supremely comforting.

“Right. And I bet it's made of glass.”

“More like ice.”

“Ah,” Wilson responds lazily, feeling himself ready to drift off.

Then his cellphone rings.

Wilson sighs exasperatedly. “Leave it,” House says.

“It might be a patient.”

“It's not.”

“Oh, you're psychic now?” Wilson, very reluctantly, gets up; the air hitting his stomach reminds him that there's some cleaning up to do. As he sorts through the clothes indiscriminately tossed on the floor, he hears House shifting on the bed.

Wilson finds the phone. “Hello?”

House is pulling tissues from the box on the nightstand, but looks back at Wilson and can tell he's talking to Amber just from his expression.

“Just at House's,” Wilson explains. It's the first time he doesn't need to lie, but, watching House wipe his semen off himself as Wilson talks to his temporarily forgotten girlfriend, it doesn't feel all that different. “I'll be home soon,” he adds before she has to ask, slipping right back into his other role effortlessly. The words come to him so easily. “Love you, too.” Wilson hangs up, tossing the phone onto the recently unmade bed.

“Funny way of showing it,” House says, offering him tissues. Wilson snatches them from House without comment.

~

They were arguing over the Vicodin, maybe, as it usually is, but not really listening to each other because their arguments rarely are ever about what they seem to be. The topic has long since traveled down winding paths and taken multiple detours that Wilson isn't sure how they got to where they are or why they're even here. It would be dizzying if he weren't so used to communicating with House in a combination of almost reflexive, nonverbal ways and a _lot_ of assumptions – both from not needing to talk and not wanting to.

This time, unusually, tempers are running so high that it's gotten physical, House throwing Wilson against a wall. A hiss escapes through Wilson's teeth as his shoulder grazes sharply against one of the bookshelves. House growls something, and Wilson tells him to back off and calm the hell down. But, of course, House doesn't listen, doesn't want to back down, even though Wilson is only asking for a truce and not demanding an unconditional surrender.

Acting reflexively and striking back would be so easy, but would also go against Wilson's better judgment – or what's left of it, these days. Instead, he pushes House away as a warning, but not hard enough to knock him off-balance; he's without his cane as he usually is at home, alone, or with Wilson. House stares Wilson down as he walks away from the wall, absentmindedly rubbing his bruised shoulder and staring right back. This is normally where their rare physical confrontations end.

Normally.

It was about three weeks ago when, not necessarily when this all started, but _something_ definitely had, springing from a fight not so different from this one. They had kissed; the first one had been tense, cautious. Cautious, not a word Wilson normally (but not never) associates with House. Suspicious – that sounds more like him – although no one in particular, as far as Wilson could remember, made the first move. He imagines House's eyes were open the entire time, looking him over skeptically, trying to predict the worst possible outcome for this situation. But House never broke away. And Wilson never stopped making the comparisons.

Those constant mental comparisons began, at first, to disprove to himself what House had said, but the bastard is right, as usual. Wilson couldn't help but pick up on those eerie, subtle similarities after going to Amber's one day and hearing her crack a nearly identical joke as House had earlier in the day. After that...

House is ranting again, or maybe he never stopped in the first place. Wilson doesn't listen, used to House throwing bombs just to distract: his marriages, his need for need, his hypocrisy, and on and on, and House is in his face again. Wilson starts yelling back at him, but _what_, exactly, isn't important – it's a screaming match, so loudest takes all.

And then House stops, stares at Wilson with that expression that invariably triggers an instant twinge of guilt in Wilson like he has nerve endings made just for that purpose, but Wilson can't remember what he said or whether he went too far. Wilson sees House's hand curling into a fist long before he throws the punch and Wilson manages to dodge it. Acting on instinct, just for a split second, he lunges at House, and they're wrestling like teenage boys; it's ridiculous, really, but at the same time not completely surprising.

“House, stop it,” Wilson demands. But House, again, ignores him, focusing instead on tearing Wilson away, probably just so he can try to punch him again. House has a few inches and more upper-body strength to his advantage, but only one good leg – Wilson pushes his guilt aside and seizes this opening, knocking the leg out from under House. They both go down.

For a moment, House looks up at Wilson with naked surprise, probably having expected Wilson to play by the rules – whatever they could possibly be – when he never does, himself. House hisses at Wilson to get off, tries to push him away, but Wilson straddles House and refuses to budge.

“_House_.” Wilson intended to say more than that, but he's distracted by this attempt to subdue House, something Wilson has had to do only once before, around the first time Stacy left, and never again, until now. Hopefully, never again after this. Using his body's weight, Wilson manages to pin down House's arms by the wrists. House continues to struggle for only a few seconds more, then goes lax, his head tilting back against the wood floor and eyes pointing up at the ceiling. Wilson hesitates to let go, because no part of him really believes House would give in this easily.

Whether from the adrenalin or something else entirely, Wilson's body is humming, hairs on his skin prickling. Blood is still rushing through his veins and he can feel it in his bruise and in House's arteries under his hands. Wilson leans forward, feeling exhausted as the endorphins leave his system. Now he's close enough to feel House's breath on his face; it smells predictably of his typical evening scotch. The top button of his shirt is undone.

At first, Wilson thought House said what he did just to screw with head, as House tends to do. It was a brilliant plan; even when he couldn't be around physically, House could be sure he was monopolizing Wilson's thoughts, whether Wilson was at the hospital and only feet away, or at home, miles apart, in bed with Amber. Most of all, the plan was brilliant because it worked, leaving Wilson to turn over House's not-so-cryptic words, rationalizing it'd make sense to be attracted to someone like House, because they were friends for a reason, and then wondering...

But looking at House now, and the past few weeks, Wilson's not so sure if he was really playing master manipulator this time around. Somehow, the alternative is terrifying.

The humming still hasn't left. Wilson takes in the feeling of House's body under him, how different but still the same as when Amber is in this position. “Any day now,” House says gruffly; he's brought his gaze from the ceiling and back to Wilson. _With those flashing eyes_, Wilson had said mockingly over a month ago.

Without thinking, Wilson cranes his neck downward, but House turns his head to the side, eyebrows drawn into a deep scowl, maybe a sarcastic, on point jab waiting on his lips. Just like that, he's reversed their positions with his simple rejection and now Wilson is the one who looks and feels like an ass. 

“Sorry,” Wilson says automatically. He gets up, offers a hand; House doesn't take it, choosing instead to stay on the floor, propped up on his elbows. “Your leg,” Wilson says stupidly, rubbing his neck. He wonders if he's turning red, because the room feels twenty degrees warmer. “Do you need your--”

“Get out,” House says evenly. There's a quiet rage Wilson's never seen before (or maybe he's repressed those times) and he doesn't have to repeat the command. Wilson nearly trips in making as quick an exit as possible.

~

Amber doesn't ask what's wrong. Normally, Wilson would just assume she can't tell something is bothering him, but putting House in her position, he considers that she simply doesn't want to ask – either because she doesn't care, or because she already, somehow, has an idea of what's going on and feels she can't deal with it.

Of course, Wilson doesn't bother telling her anything, and not just because he can't quite put it into words. Instead, he slips effortlessly into the role of Good Boyfriend, making her dinner, listening to how her day was, rubbing her feet. She's always so tense when she comes home from work, and Wilson has no hesitations in admitting to himself, at least, that it feels _good_ to be the one who can get her to relax. During the day, she has ten feet of personal space, but right now she looks at Wilson with unguarded adoration, something he hasn't been on the receiving of for a couple of years. It'd be beyond stupid to somehow screw up this relationship, too; Wilson tries to shake off the memory of his fight with House, best forgotten. This time is going to be different, _Amber_ is different; he actually has more to say about her than a noncommittal “she's nice” (that most of those things happen to also apply to House, he tries to ignore).

Amber playfully pokes Wilson's cheek with her big toe, getting his attention. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing, really.” Reflexive response.

“That's a pretty intense look for 'nothing.'”

“I was thinking about you,” he says simply, telling the truth but not the whole truth, a skill he had mastered at some point. Amber lets out a short laugh, her lips only halfway curling into a smile, as though she found Wilson's response sweet but not quite believable; it's her typical response to nearly everything he does. Okay, so she's a little insecure, but since when does that qualify as needy? Otherwise most of the world's population would be--

“Ah,” Wilson gasps. Amber's smile has taken on a mischievous shade – she's rubbing Wilson's cock through the fabric of his pants with her foot. The pleasant pressure temporarily interferes with Wilson's more coherent thoughts, but she sits up, pulling him into a kiss by the tie he didn't even realize he was still wearing, and he decides he can torment himself more later on. He doesn't mind that she bites harder than necessary, as she often does, or that her grip on his hair is rough. Her fingers work frantically to take off Wilson's tie and undo buttons, so quickly that Wilson feels like he's having delayed reactions; by the time he touches her, Amber breaks away.

She brushes her hair back. “This isn't really comfortable,” she says between heavy breaths, patting the couch. Wilson's hands rest on her hips, which aren't entirely still next to his; it takes a moment for Amber's words to register. She's on the move again before Wilson can agree, picking up his tie from the floor and placing it around her neck; she has a strange fixation with his ties, almost like House.

Wilson shakes his head, trying to gloss over the thought, and follows Amber towards the bedroom.

Amber alternates between aggressiveness and almost total passivity, like she has multiple personalities or she's trying to find the right balance; she goes from clawing at Wilson's skin to caressing, biting to soft kisses. But all traces of Amber's assertiveness disappear to somewhere else when she's at the mercy of Wilson's expert hands, precise as surgeon's should be, touching only what they intend to, nothing more or less.

And if Wilson could get his mind to shut up, he'd be a happier man; the fight is still fresh in his mind and on his skin and he thinks of how House was pinned under him, the way Amber is now. He can't stop recalling the scattered details of the past weeks – the texture of House's skin, the warmth of his body pressed against his, the taste of his mouth. Looking at Amber's flushed, smiling face, Wilson wonders what she would think if she could read his thoughts the way he's almost certain House can.

Amber rests her head in the crook of his neck, tracing patterns on his chest with one finger, unaware that Wilson's mind is somewhere else as he strokes her shoulder mechanically. Wilson tries to fall asleep, as Amber is doing, hoping he won't end up dreaming about this, too; he'd like to turn off the flow of thoughts for just a few minutes.

Predictably, Wilson spends the next week avoiding House in every way possible – just because they're in the same building doesn't mean they have to be in the same room, and just because they're in the same room doesn't mean they have to make eye contact. The one day Wilson accidentally looks at House though the glass walls, on his daily walk of shame to his office, House glares at him, willing Wilson to back off, and he complies.

He's so effective at avoidance that Wilson can't get a read on House, whether he's pissed, if he's hurt, if he doesn't care anymore. Wilson, on the other hand, feels like his thoughts are clear on his face, being broadcast to the world, even though he knows it's ridiculous; no one ever seems to pick up on his changes in mood except for House, and right now Wilson isn't even sure about that much.

Gradually, Wilson begins to wonder whether he's overblown the entire situation in his mind. After all, they had been through worse over the years, and if nothing else, he's learned that neither of them is truly capable of walking away from the other – at least not for long. Almost two weeks of playing “I don't see you” is, apparently, enough time for the old routine to fall back into place; House seeks him out first, supposedly for a consult, which segues into lunch, wasting time in Wilson's office, more consulting (which somehow translated into Wilson standing around and watching House berate his fellows), and then an evening at House's apartment.

Wilson sits on the familiar battered couch, watching the usual shows on TV, while House makes his typical sarcastic commentary. He wonders how what's normal came to feel surreal, like his life is continuing to plod along while he's still trying to figure out what, exactly, is going on. Wilson's replayed the events of the past two months backwards and forwards, and on the sixth or seventh replay, he remembers another of House's remarks, buried amid his more shocking, blatant ones. _You could do worse than a female proxy for me._

A female proxy for me.

Female proxy. That means Wilson's with Amber _because_ she's like House, rather than it simply being a strange coincidence. Doesn't that imply she's literally _just_ a stand-in for him? House is often right, but it sends a small chill through Wilson to think this is all true, was true, before he even knew Amber existed. That, or he has to accept House has an incredible ability to get reality to bend to his perceptions. Or he's wrong. But the past couple of months has Wilson so turned around, he's not sure whether House is wrong. Hell, he isn't even sure if that's what House was saying, or if he's just blowing everything out of proportion again.

He wants to ask House for clarification, but doesn't want to dig up something from months ago, and Wilson wants everything to be normal again, too, although the secretly cynical part of him thinks they've passed the point of no return some time ago, whether they admit to it or not. Wilson keeps his mouth closed and his obsessive thoughts to himself.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Wilson looks up from his plate and realizes Amber's been talking to him. He puts his fork down, runs a hand over his face, trying to snap out of his daze. “I'm sorry. What were you saying?”

Apparently not the right response, Amber leans forward, looking concerned. “I asked if you're alright. You've seemed distracted the past few days. Something going on at work?”

Wilson shakes his head. “No.” The truth, but not the whole truth. They both continue eating, but Wilson doesn't notice that Amber isn't talking.

~

“Trouble with the Mrs. already?”

Out of habit, Wilson bristles at this. “We're not married.”

“Yet. Let's see, no immediate denial. Definitely means the honeymoon phase is over. Now you're probably in the holding pattern. That part's kind of boring.” Wilson rolls his eyes, not in the mood to hear House repeatedly make bullseye remarks about his relationships. He tries to find something on the desk to distract him. “Fine,” House says, and Wilson hears the door closing. “Reason the first – you're working late. Again.”

“That happens when you actually work.”

“No, that's what happens when you do everybody else's work,” House says. “Second, you're actually hanging out with me. And third, when you do, you don't mention her. At all.”

“We're not having trouble.” Maybe if he says it often enough, it'll come true.

“Sure.” House winks at him. “Just do me a favor – when you're divorcing Mrs. Wilson the fourth, don't try to blame me, because you managed to screw up just fine on your own.”

“Yeah, you've been perfectly innocent, House.” Wilson laughs dryly.

“Excuse me for being juvenile, _but_,” House says, pointing at Wilson, “_you_ started it.”

“Of course you'd say that. No surprise there.” Wilson stays behind the desk, placing his hands on his hips. “But what the hell is 'it' House? Can you even say it?”

A long silence passes, paradoxically freezing time, as House seems to consider his next words carefully. He settles on simply turning the question back onto Wilson: “Can_you_?” Wilson's thrown by this response, confused. “You're so repressed that I can't even come up with a metaphor for it! You can go on about human connection and tell me how screwed up _I_ am, but _you're_ the one who compulsively goes after the same, doomed relationship. You're Freud's fucking wet dream!”

“Oh, you're funny, talking about repression,” Wilson says. “You're so obvious, I should have figured it out sooner. You're not concerned about my relationships or even interested in being right! You're in love with me.” House doesn't say anything, doesn't even move. “What, you're not going to deny it? Isn't that what you do?”

“I think it's pretty obvious who's obsessed with who, here.”

“Damnit, I knew I chased one too many women away from you. No, wait, that's what _you_ always do.” Wilson comes from behind the desk, pointing back at House. “That was never about watching out for me or wanting me to be miserable and alone with you, it was always--”

“You're the one dating me and doesn't seem too bothered by it.” House underscores his unwillingness to back down by taking a step closer into Wilson's personal space and raising his voice higher.

“That's _your_ theory. That's _your_ screwed up theory! And you _want_ it to be true, don't you?”

“You want me to want it to be true,” House says. 

“This is ridiculous.” Wilson laughs, but he's not sure if it's because of House's response or the situation in general. Maybe a bit of both. House's face is an inch away from his, at best, and the back of Wilson's mind is screaming that this is very familiar. “You wouldn't say anything if I was right, anyway,” Wilson says, trailing off at the end as the small distance is closed.

He hates being a cliché.

Wilson enters the apartment with only the dim light of a lamp in the living room to see by, and wonders whether Amber really did go to sleep already, but goes into the kitchen first. Before Wilson even opens the refrigerator door, he knows he's not hungry; he didn't eat a proper dinner, but he did have some junk from the vending machine and drank some coffee – that combined with nerves doesn't make eating a full meal all that appealing. Instead, Wilson quietly makes his way to the bedroom; he doesn't say anything to Amber, and she doesn't speak, either, so he assumes that she is asleep.

As Wilson changes in the dark, he gets deja vu: coming home after his wife has gone to bed (he again reminds himself that he and Amber are not married), after working late or spending time – perhaps too much – with House. He gets into the bed next to Amber, on the left, and shuts his eyes in a futile attempt to instantly fall asleep.

Wilson wakes up to a start, unusual for him, and looks around the bedroom and determines that, no, it's not House's, no matter how much it looks like it. He squints his eyes against the bright morning sunlight, conveniently falling across his face, and stays in bed a bit longer, also unusual for him. He listens to the sounds of Amber moving around the apartment, getting ready for work.

In the kitchen, Amber is dressed in a robe and her hair is pulled back, still wet; she's drinking coffee at the table while browsing the newspaper. When she sees Wilson enter she says, “You're up late.”

Wilson glances at the clock. It's ten. “Aren't you going to be late for work?”

Before Wilson could start panicking that Amber had spontaneously developed a disregard for getting into work on time like a certain someone else, she raises an eyebrow and says, “I have today off. I told you. Twice.”

“Oh, right,” Wilson says, even though he doesn't remember either time. “Sorry.” Amber shrugs.

~

He finds himself straddling House, who is on his back willingly this time, probably expecting Wilson to do all of the work, the smug bastard; Wilson takes his sweet time undoing his shirt one button at a time, savoring the moment, whatever this moment is, exactly. They're both here at least in part because of goading each other into some bizarre game of chicken, and neither have admitted to anything, because they are experts at not really talking.

Wilson had knocked instead of using the key, which he still has, hanging on the key chain right next to the one to Amber's apartment. Just one more thing in a series of ironies that are starting to bother him less. House opened the door and said, “Didn't your mother teach you any manners? Some people are trying to sleep.”

“You don't go to bed before midnight,” Wilson responded automatically. “And you're an insomniac.”

“Yeah. Kind of my point. What do you want?” He was leaning against the door frame, impatient. Wilson reached out to him, as if he always does, but the whole touching thing, at the same time, still felt odd. House didn't react, except to say, “What about Amber?”

Did he break up with her, Wilson knew that's what he was asking. “That's what I came here to talk about,” Wilson had said, speaking in vague half-truths like they're his first language. House should really know better by now.

Fanning his fingers out and running his hands over House's bare chest and abdomen, Wilson takes in the details and adds to his mental tally of the ways House is nothing like Amber. Leaning forward, Wilson brushes his lips past House's teasingly, now that he's the one wanting, and brings them instead to his collar bone. As Wilson traces a trail downwards with his tongue, House tugs at his shirt until Wilson feels it tighten and give and he hears a popping sound.

Wilson reaches down and touches the bottom of his shirt; just as he thought. “Thanks,” he says sarcastically, sitting upright again and looking down at the spot where a button formerly resided.

“You move too slow,” House says, reaching for the shirt again.

“I got it.” Wilson waves his hand away. “I'd like to have _something_ that still vaguely remembers a shirt when we're done.”

Sarcasm. The familiarity is oddly soothing; it's as much their secret language as a way to put up walls, and he can tell even House is relaxing a bit, lying back with his hands laced behind his head. Wilson watches House watch him and carefully undoes each button. There isn't a time he remembers House waiting patiently for anything, so he rocks his hips slightly, eliciting a sudden intake of breath from him. Wilson slips the third button from its hole and rocks forward again. House's hands clamp down on Wilson's thighs, but he's stopped, focusing on removing the shirt.

“Any day now,” House says; Wilson can feel the vibrations of his voice. He tosses the shirt aside.

House props himself up, meeting Wilson halfway in an open-mouth kiss, hot breath brushing against each other's skin, then gradually lowers himself flat on his back again. His hands explore every detail about Wilson's back, his callused fingers touching each vertebra, feeling every slight flex of muscle. This was never the way Wilson imagined it; he expected fast, maybe a little violent, probably drunk. But it shouldn't be a surprise if House and Amber are--

House pushes him aside momentarily and Wilson has the ridiculous thought that House read his mind, ready to stop at the first mention of Amber. House rolls onto his left, facing him, banishing these thoughts as he resumes kissing Wilson and, very suddenly, cupping his cock through the fabric of his pants. Wilson's body reacts involuntarily, hips bucking forward and hands tightening their grip on House's bicep. House presses harder, earning a stronger reaction; he always has to find a way to get back, and –_damn_ – he's good at it. Now Wilson is the impatient one.

But House is ahead of the curve, as always, making skin-to-skin contact as he slides his hand into the front of Wilson's pants. He's expert at handing Wilson, which Wilson doesn't think too much about, because right now House has power over him that he can't deny. Wilson arches his back, pressing against him; when he regains some control, Wilson begins undoing his pants, because between the two layers of fabric and that hand, the heat is unbearable. House doesn't bother helping the process along, instead letting Wilson struggle to keep from thrusting as he tries to pull his pants and underwear off in one go.

And then Wilson's completely naked, lying in his friend's bed as he watches House work at his cock. Wilson doesn't know what House is doing differently from Amber, of if he's doing anything differently at all, but Wilson feels completely helpless in his hands, and he knows that any second he'll--

“God,” Wilson says with a sigh, grabbing House's wrist and stopping him before he can come.

“Didn't think I was that good.”

“You wish,” Wilson replies, but knows he's not very convincing, flushed and trying to catch his breath. He rolls onto his back, but doesn't let go of House, not trusting him to wait. House lowers himself a bit and begins kissing Wilson's neck as his heart beat slows from the speed of light to just the speed of sound. House bites his shoulder and Wilson shrugs into the bite, a low moan escaping his mouth.

Wilson moves to undo House's jeans with his free hand, getting the zipper down just as House tenses. He rolls over, possibly trying to move away from Wilson, but Wilson maintains the grip on his wrist and follows, propping himself up on his side again, and lets out a surprised hiss when his cock accidentally brushes against the denim.

“You okay?” Wilson asks, able to tell House is contemplating something.

After a long pause, he says, “Gonna let go of me?”

Wilson dumbly releases his wrist as thought it were a command he had no choice but to obey. House tangles his newly-freed hand into Wilson's hair, reminding him that a hair cut is long overdue, and brings him closer until their lips meet in a deep kiss, but Wilson doesn't forget about his original goal. He grips both sides of the jeans and gives them a tug, House's fingers curling and tightening their hold on Wilson's hair almost painfully so; House lifts his hips and Wilson slips off the last two layers separating them from each other.

Tossing the clothes aside, Wilson pauses before coming together again to observe House, naked, erect, wanting him, _needing_ him. Lightly, Wilson runs his hand over the scarred tissue on House's leg; this isn't the first time he's seen it, of course, but, somehow, it looks different in this context. Wilson presses his lips against it, then turns the other thigh before House can get irritated; more than knowing House is vulnerable to him, Wilson is charged knowing that _House_ is aware of it.

Wilson lets out a sigh and House's cock twitches at contact with his breath. Then Wilson hesitates momentarily; for all the blow jobs he's received, they haven't exactly made him an expert at giving one. Before Wilson can spend too much time trying to come to a decision, House's fingers again snake through Wilson's hair and he drags him upwards until they're face-to-face again, impatient and bossy as always. Simple enough. Wilson readjusts his position until he's on top of House again, bodies perfectly aligned, and it's really not so very different from Wilson's used to, he thinks.

House leads the way, his hand pressing down on Wilson's ass suddenly, both of their cocks meeting for the first time – and, okay, it's not _quite_ the same, Wilson decides. He needs no further encouragement from House, instinctively rocking against him, hands curling into fists around the sheets on either side of him. Each thrust sends a current through Wilson's body, reaching the tips of his fingers and toes, and he's mouthing _yes, yes, yes_ into another kiss, because this what he's been craving for a very long time without even realizing it.

They fall into a rhythm, and House is now gripping Wilson's ass with both hands, pulling Wilson against him as though they're still not close enough. Wilson turns his head to hear House's heavy breathing, but no other sound comes from him; he takes this as an invitation to flick his tongue behind Wilson's ear. Meaningless syllables fall from Wilson's lips and he gives a stronger thrust, getting an intoxicating grunt from House.

“God,” Wilson groans, not getting a smart remark from House this time around. As the sensations mount, he buries his head into House's shoulder, waiting for the coming climax.

He's surprised when he feels House's grasp tighten, muscles contracting underneath him, and very suddenly a warm, wet stickiness between the two of them. House collapses, spent, his hold on Wilson loosening; Wilson doesn't pause for a second, speeding up and almost losing any sense of rhythm, cock rubbing against House's stomach, the short hairs prickling against him in just the right places. Wilson still can't shut up and House still doesn't make a sound. Wilson's grinding into him like he's futilely trying to scratch some unreachable itch, and he digs his teeth into House's skin as he finally lets go.

After the wave passes, Wilson finds himself lying on top of House, exhausted, feeling House's breathing underneath him. He remains motionless, too spent to even lift his head, and after some unknown amount of time passes, he feels House's palm on the back of his head. He's stroking Wilson's hair – very slowly, barely noticeable, but he's doing it all the same. Like Amber. Wilson's not sure whether that's a good thing or not, or if he should care at all, because he realizes he's lost track of the comparisons, or why he was making them, or what it all has to do with this, whatever this is. It's an experiment gone awry. He thinks.

He's not even sure who's the scientist and who's the subject now.

“Wilson,” House says, the gravelly quality of his voice much more apparent when Wilson's ear is pressed against his chest.

“Hm?”

There's a noticeable pause before House speaks again. “Just making sure your fat ass isn't falling asleep on top of me.”

Wilson snorts at that. He can't help it.


End file.
